


Costumed

by piperholmes



Category: The Greatest Showman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, The Greatest Showman, a sort of filler for a few moments in the movie, spoilery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 04:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piperholmes/pseuds/piperholmes
Summary: Just a little one-shot that takes place during The Greatest Showman.Phillip x Anne (I saw on a post someone suggest CartWheeler as a ship name. Yes? No?)Anyway, hopefully it’s not too bad





	Costumed

He’d made a mess of it. 

He’d wanted to be brave.

Brave like she is.

But when he’d felt the heat of their eyes burning into his skin he’d hid behind the clothes of his position, the set of tails his armor...

No. Not his armor. He was too much of a coward to claim such a warrior-like idea. 

He’d stood with them, but he’d failed to be them.

The cold that swirled about his fingers, a cold that had eradicated the warmth of her touch, seeped deeper into him, into his skin, his heart, his soul.

He’d thought he understood what it meant to stand out. His words now nothing more than the sawdust trampled under their feet.

_“Anne?”_

_She looked at him, her fingers still clutching the cool, smooth fabric of her costume as tightly around her body as it would go._

_W.D. stood nearby, a stony sentinel, the only consolation he could offer his sister, his solidarity as they both silently endured the stares._

_“They’re looking at us,” she whispered._

_“They always look at us,” W.D. countered, his voice tired._

_“It’s different here,” Anne insisted, her eyes meeting Phillip’s. “Here it’s grand. When we’re performing back home it’s like we’re giving them permission to look. Here...here, we’re nothing. We’re nobody. They just stare and we have to let them.”_

_Phillip wasn’t sure he understood. He thought one stage was pretty much like all the rest. If anything being in Buckingham Palace should have felt more important than the damp, manure scented building they all called home._

_“These parties are always a bore,” he offered. “I’m sure they’re grateful you’ve brought color into this dry gathering.”_

_He meant it as a compliment, but the way W.D. ‘s jaw tightened, and the quick drop of Anne’s eyes to the floor told him his comment had missed the mark._

_“Being in a place like this is a dream,” Anne said slowly. “But it’s a dream that cost any dignity we might have left.”_

_He didn’t quite know why but he suddenly felt like a heel, all dressed to the nines in his white tie and tails. He wanted to throw his jacket around her shoulders, stop the world from gawking at her._

_She must have seen it in his face, the confusion, the pity, because her own went hard. With a small shake of her head she dismissed any notion he had of intervening. Instead she let her arms drop from where they had been covering her torso, her hand going to her brother’s._

_And they stood. Hand in hand. As cold and as still as the statues from Phillip’s childhood trips to grand museums with his nanny._

_Suddenly the mindless chatter he’d learned to ignore began to filter through._

_“How odd”_

_“She’s too beautiful for a colored girl”_

_“Do you think they understand English?”_

_A group of men laughed loudly nearby, their sexual desire for Anne poorly concealed behind elevated language._

_Because “anyone who could show that much leg must know how to get a leg over someone.”_

_Phillip felt his own face grown hot._

_“Leave it.”_

_The words, so simply said, froze him._

_She’d said it without looking at him. Her fingers still clinging to her brother’s._

_Phillip had been taught, just as these gentleman, that a lady was to be treated with the utmost respect. But he also knew, that like himself, these gentleman had been taught that no lady could or would ever look like Anne._

_“You deserve better.” It was all he could think to say._

_“Very few people in this life get what they deserve Mr. Carlyle.”_

_And so the evening had stretched on. Many people speaking to Phillip, and many speaking about Barnum’s oddities._

_And he thought he understood._

On the boat ride back, he’d sought her out, as he often did. Wanted to apologize for it all. But she had cut him off, asking instead about the plays he’d written, about what it was like at the theatre.

His heart had warmed at the longing in her eyes, and he knew he would one day make it up to her. One day she would arrive in a fancy dress, no one would be there to stare at her, she’d sit in the audience, with him. He’d felt brave and heroic.

And here they had stood—not even afforded a chair. He had given up his spot in a spacious, warm box, to stand with them. 

With her.

She had taken his hand this time. Her smaller fingers sliding easily between his own. The palm of his hand pressing against the smooth skin on the back of her’s. Such a contrast to the calloused fingertips that scratched against his own. It was sensation unlike he’d ever experienced.

She had chosen him to stand with.

And he’d let go.

He’d dropped her.

His costume, his denial, his fear. He’d been unequal to her. And he’d been unable to even look at her. 

The audience roared around him. The cheering and adoration pouring from them.

He could only stand.

As still and as cold as the statues from his childhood. 

And then he understood.


End file.
